


Paint

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: HaiKise Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:32:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows Ryouta’s definition of ‘redecorate’ and it’s pretty damn expansive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint

 

They’ve lived in the apartment barely a year when Ryouta suggests they redecorate the living room. And it’s not really a suggestion, despite the shoulds and maybes and hypotheticals in his voice Shougo can tell this isn’t really up for discussion. It’s one of those things that Ryouta’s going to plead and pester until Shougo never wants to fucking see the living room again, even though in all honesty he doesn’t really care what it looks like. But even though that doesn’t matter and by extension he shouldn’t mind that they’re redecorating, well—he knows Ryouta’s definition of ‘redecorate’ and it’s pretty damn expansive. If they can get by keeping the same windows they have now, it might be a victory (the frames make zero difference and no one is going to tell them they have bad taste if the windows don’t match the couch for fuck’s sake). And the paint is fine and the plaster on the ceiling is staying perfectly in place, but Ryouta’s probably going to have that redone too, because why the hell not?

At least Ryouta’s paying for it, so Shougo can’t complain too much (and it’s not like he’s got dumb sentimental attachment to any of their furniture; the couch was honestly way too uncomfortable to have sex on and that lamp on the end table was really ugly—although he’s not the one who picked that one out). At least, that’s what he decides, but that’s way before any of the actual redecoration process starts.

Ryouta comes home, a week after he first proposes this stupid scheme of his, with a book full of paint swatches from the home store near his agent’s office. Shougo suppresses a groan just looking at the damn thing—knowing Ryouta, he’s going to examine every little swatch on every single page and compare them all and make Shougo sit there with him. And sure enough, once dinner’s done and Shougo’s clearing the table and washing the dishes, he takes it out.

“Come look! We need to decide on colors for the walls and the trim, and the baseboards too.”

“I’m washing the dishes,” says Shougo.  
“Fine,” says Ryouta. “When you’re done, then.”

“Not gonna help me?” says Shougo. “After I made your delicious dinner?”

“This is important, Shougo-kun.”

Shougo rolls his eyes—not that he really minds doing the dishes, and not that he and Ryouta haven’t had this argument before about Ryouta’s pretty little hands getting dirty and what a fucking tragedy that would be if some poor intern had to retouch them a little bit more in the photographs. But still, it would be nice if Ryouta pitched in a little bit more (doubtless he would say looking at the stupid book was pitching in).

“Why can’t we just have all white like we do now? It looks fine.”

“What would be the point of redecorating, then?” says Ryouta.

“You can redecorate without having the whole room repainted, having the painters come in and out of the house for a couple of days, having to cover the furniture with plastic, having the house smell disgusting and inhaling the fumes…”

“We can stay in a hotel or something,” says Ryouta.

Shougo snorts. It must be nice to have always had this kind of money.

“Besides,” says Ryouta. “White-on-white-on-white is so boring. Our living room should have character. It should let people know we live here.”

“Listen to you, Mr. Interior Designer,” says Shougo, finishing with the last of the dishes and wiping his hands on his pants.

Ryouta rolls his eyes. “Please. Just because you like boring colors that get dirty easily doesn’t mean everyone else does. Most people appreciate subtle beauty.”

Shougo snorts. “Does this mean we’re getting black?”

“Ha, ha,” says Ryouta. “Black is too gothic and dreary, and it makes the room look smaller. No, something like this.”

He points to a swatch on the page. Shougo sits down beside him and frowns.

“Isn’t that white, though?”

“It’s pale green!” says Ryouta.

He looks mildly offended, maybe for real—if he is, this is too fucking much.

“I don’t see the difference,” says Shougo, “This’ll get dirty as quick as white does, because it is white.”

“No it isn’t,” says Ryouta.

He flips back a few pages to find a bunch of colors, shades of white (if that’s what they’re called, not that Shougo cares). Ryouta points to one in the middle.

“This is a pure white. See? It’s different.”

He flips back. They’re different, but they both look white. Shougo shrugs.

“Whatever. Any of these are fine with me, if it’s just going to look white anyway.”

“But Shougo-kun,” Ryouta says.

He puts his hand on Shougo’s arm, squeezing, and fucking pouts at him like a wounded puppy. Shougo doesn’t even fucking like dogs, but Ryouta’s look—it’s playing fucking dirty, that’s what it is.

“What?” says Shougo with a sigh.

“I want us to pick this out together. It’s your living room, too.”

“I’m not going to be staring at the fucking white walls and thinking about how green they look,” says Shougo.

“I was thinking of that for the baseboards, anyway,” says Ryouta. “We have to get something to go with it for the walls.”

“How about a—what was it you said? Plain white?”

“Pure white,” says Ryouta in a withering tone. “I already told you we’re not getting that.”

Shougo sighs again and points to a swatch on the next page. “How about that one?”

“That’s a blue red,” says Ryouta. “That won’t do with the green.”

“Blue red? So purple?”

Ryouta looks as if he’s about to smack him. But honestly, even if Shougo could see how this looked like red (pale red, though, so maybe pink? Or maybe it’s a special kind of pale red and who the fuck even knows at this point) he has no idea what the fuck else a blue red could be.

“Yeah, okay, we can have something…not a blue red,” says Shougo.

He resists the urge to mutter something under his breath about this not mattering to him, because he probably would get smacked if he did. Although maybe Ryouta would just kick him out of the room and leave him be instead of asking for his opinion on something that Shougo doesn’t give two shits about (which is pretty rich of Ryouta, considering how often he takes Shougo’s opinion into account on things Shougo does care about—i.e. rarely if at all). But still, he doesn’t say it—even though in theory it would be good to give up and go to bed or watch TV or lure Ryouta away from this, it’s clearly important to him. And Shougo’s not some sap who’s going to give up everything for his boyfriend’s happiness (as if) he supposes he can stand a few more minutes of this.


End file.
